


Eye on the Prize

by autoschediastic



Category: The Unit
Genre: Clubbing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mack is a Noisy Fuck, Team Bonding, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning Mack where he was ticklish didn't seem mission-pertinent a few hours ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye on the Prize

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/gifts).



> For my evil(er) twin! Because she is. Also a fantastic cheerleader and really delightful when afflicted with capslock. :3

“This is a nice place, you know. Five-star.” Bob straightens his tie in the bright elevator mirror. The chrome railings are spotless, the music trendy, and the room keycard in his pocket is sleek, black metal. A manicure and a ring on his finger is a far cry from crawling through the dirt with a knife in his teeth, and he's got no shame in hoping for a steak on the dinner menu. He shifts his gaze to Mack and slowly shakes his head. “And you couldn't even pack a razor.”

Mack lifts an eyebrow and rubs at the stubble on his throat. “Didn't think you married me 'cause you thought I'd clean up pretty.”

Their target's a guest at one of the half-dozen resorts on the island. Best intel they've got puts him here at Halcyon Beach, or across the peninsula at the Grande St. Lucian where Hector and Charlie are playing mirror roles. As far as the team knows, the resorts are legit, but with how many pies this guy's got his fingers in, they're not taking chances: assume no privacy, covers stay solid. That's absolutely Bob's excuse for turning around, grin splitting his face as he scratches blunt nails through Mack's stubble--almost a beard now, he's taking the 'vacation' part of their cover seriously--like he's got a right. “At least you tucked your shirt in.”

“See now, that's why you married me.” The elevator chimes, the doors sliding smoothly open. Mack crosses the threshold to full view of the dining room before he slaps a hand to his ass. “This right here. Gotta keep your eye on the prize, pumpkin.”

Bob huffs a laughs and takes a few long strides to fall in line with Mack again. It's early yet, the dining room only about two-thirds full. He's scanning the crowd for both their table and their target when Mack leans in close. “Not going to hold my hand and whisper sweet nothings in my ear?”

Promptly tangling their fingers together, Bob lifts the back of Mack's hand to his mouth. “Three o'clock,” he murmurs, the rough texture of Mack's knuckles strange against his lips. The raised scar between Mack's index and middle fingers bumps his nose as he turns an ear closer to Mack.

“That so,” Mack says, with a quick glance and nod along with the quirk of his mouth to say he's got eyes on the potential. “If you're gonna keep me up that long, better get some real meat in you. That appetizer you had upstairs ain't gonna last long.”

“Jesus,” mutters Bob, not bothering to stop the roll of his eyes this time as their hands fall, still linked. He takes the lead winding their way through the tables. If anybody else is listening to this shit, they deserve to suffer along with him.

*

An hour into dinner, Bob's written their potential off. Mack's given him the signal he agrees. Without a solid picture of the target to go by, identifying him is two parts analysis and one part guesswork. Just to be sure, Bob keeps one eye on the table across the room and one on the table in front of him, which doesn't leave one free to keep on Mack.

“Is that true?” exclaims the oldest wife in the bunch, freshly married to a man half her age. The table's a motley crew, as promised by the resort's inclusive policies--him and Mack, the cougar and her stud, another gay couple more interested in playing footsie under the table, and a young husband and wife that probably saved for two years to make this holiday happen. The wife turns her disbelieving gaze on Bob. “It is not, a nice young man like you.”

“Honest truth, every last word of it,” Mack says. An arm hooked over the back of his chair, wine glass caught loosely between his fingers, he looks all of two minutes away from kicking his boots up on the table. “Just couldn't resist those big doe eyes. Thought he was gonna deck me before he figured out there was at least one gentleman in the bunch.”

“Good man,” says the affable husband in an off-the-rack suit to Bob's left.

“Who?” Bob asks, helping himself to a healthy gulp of wine. “Me or him?”

Laughs go up around the table, mostly genuine, one or two strained. Estella, the young wife and the most talkative of the group--and the most likely to try to run away with somebody else's husband, Bob's pretty sure--leans conspiratorially close to Mack. Cover or no cover, Mack's gaze not straying from her face is impressive. Bob's having a hard enough time not looking. “Go ahead,” she says, “tell us the truth. You took him straight home, didn't you?”

“No, ma'am, I did not.” Mack grins wide and sets a hand high on Bob's thigh. “But don't think for a minute it's 'cause he didn't want me to.”

“Hey now,” Bob says, smiling along easily. “Don't give our new friends a bad impression of me.”

Hand creeping a few inches further north, Mack winks. “Didn't leave a bad impression on me at all.”

“Alright,” Bob says, and sets his glass down. The chair catches on the carpet as he shoves back from the table. “I think that's our cue.”

Mack's on his feet first, elbow out for Bob to take. The stud gives them a sideways glance that doesn't say anything flattering. Bob lifts an eyebrow right back at him and slides his arm around Mack's waist, hooking his fingers into Mack's pocket. “Baby,” he says, “I think you should take me dancing.”

“Damn right I should.” Mack gets in close fast, his mouth to Bob's ear. Even prepared for it, Bob's got to tramp down hard on the urge to jerk away. Warning Mack where he was ticklish didn't seem mission-pertinent a few hours ago. “Put that ass of yours to better use than sittin' on it all night.”

Voice low like that, Bob's not too sure anybody at the table heard. But he says, “Yessir,” anyway, aiming for eager, or at the very least familiar. From the gleam in Mack's eye, he's pretty sure he hit bashful dead-on. That it matches both Mack's story and the prickling heat spreading up the back of his neck isn't much in the way of consolation.

*

Mack's lacing his boots when Bob walks out of the bathroom and stops short, towel dangling limply from his grip. He takes in the long stretch of Mack's legs in black denim, the freckles and scars scattered on his bare arms, and tries chalking it up to Mack knowing their audience. He stands there and dries his pits, considering possible alternatives.

When Mack glances up, Bob says, “That's what you're wearing.”

“Brings 'em to their knees.” Mack stands up to double check that his weapon stays hidden. With how tight those jeans are, Bob would be less concerned about stealth and more about ever getting it the hell out again. “You go out dressed like that, might even give me some decent competition.”

Bob glances down at his bare chest. “But I'm not...” he starts, and trails off with a snort. He levels a finger at Mack. “Shut up,” he states, and flings the towel at Mack's head.

Mack snatches the towel out of midair. He brings it straight to his face and inhales loudly. “Too clean,” he declares, tossing it aside. “Throw your dirty drawers at me next time, that'll give me a real turn.”

“Thought I told you to shut up,” Bob says, circling the bed to root around in his duffle. Mack finishes up with his boots and slumps onto one elbow beside it to make like he's admiring the view. Bob hauls his shorts out first and holds them crumpled in one hand, then goes back in for his jeans without sparing Mack a glance.

“Sure you wanna go dancing, baby boy?”

“Yep.” Speaking of turns, Mack's sure giving him one now. Nudity is nothing new. With some of the places his team's been holed up, everybody's already seen it all and then some. The weight of Mack's gaze now is nothing like the long, assessing looks he's been getting since he joined up. “What, you made an honest man out of me and now you don't wanna take me out anymore?”

“You're the one who hasn't even put a stitch on yet,” Mack says easily. “Gonna give the boys a thrill, go out there bare-assed?”

Bob can't help a glance at the lazy sprawl of Mack's legs. Somebody runs out of clean shorts in the field, nobody says boo. Hear a fella cuss over getting his short and curlies caught in a zipper, everybody laughs about it later, once there's a cold brew to wash away the taste of dust and dirt. Bob's never once been stuck staring at a teammate's fly trying to see if there's anything more than skin under there. Mack's not moving like he's free-balling it.

“How am I gonna throw them in your face when we get back then, huh?” he says a beat too late, and quickly hauls on his shorts before Mack decides to really fuck with him, play keep away with his fucking underwear. It's not until he's tugging his belt buckle tight that he hears Mack roll off the bed to his feet, but by then he's busy trying to figure out exactly when he got so invested in his buddy's wardrobe. Or lack of it.

*

A man joins the army, he ends up places he never dreamed. A man joins the Unit, he signs up for more than his fair share of nightmares. Perched on Mack's lap with a beer sweating through the leg of his jeans, lights flaring in his eyes and bass thudding through his ribcage, the jury's still out on which one Bob's stuck in.

“Relax,” Mack says, his breath tickling Bob's neck. Mouth to ear is the only way they can talk in here, but by Bob's measure, Mack's doing a hell of a lot more of that than they need to. He forces the tension out of his spine, taking a quick swig from the bottle Mack presses into his grip. When he tries to hand it back, Mack's already got his hand full of something else.

Bob takes quick stock of the crowd. Place like this, nobody's going to care. Cozied up like they are, they'd probably raise more red flags if Mack wasn't getting handsy. He pastes on a smile and curls into Mack's body, spreading his legs like he's making it easier for Mack and not trading targets so they've got fresh eyes on both exits. Across the room, Hector and Charlie are working point from the bar. The shadows are deep at the fringes of the dance floor, but not so deep Bob's confident neither one of them caught a hint at Mack's wandering hands. The way his team gets on, they probably laid down bets at deployment for how long it would take for Bob to call chicken.

Mack's thumbnail scratching along his zipper makes his leg twitch. His smile turns rueful as Mack goes again, slow and methodical. It's been a long while since Bob's been on the receiving end of a tease; his wife's got no interest and he's got no patience. The third time Mack makes a pass, after Bob's said fuck it, easier to roll with whatever game Mack's playing, and downed another mouthful of beer, Mack's thumb veers to the left.

“How 'bout it, honey?” Mack says, his gaze nowhere near where his fingertips have found the head of Bob's cock, gone still now but the heat and pressure leaching through denim. Bob's gone just as still, lump caught in his throat that beer won't budge. “Wanna get out there, shake that fine ass?”

Bob keeps his eyes on the mess of bodies bumping and grinding on what's supposed to be a dance floor. “I don't see anybody to dance with.”

“Ouch,” hisses Mack, almost a laugh. His fingers start moving in slow, deliberate circles. He tucks his chin close in the crook of Bob's neck, his stubble rough and prickly, a strange counterpoint to the more familiar soft brush of breath. A slight turn of his head sends a sharp jolt up Bob's spine, and the tension from holding back the shiver that wants to follow makes Mack laugh for real.

“Sweetheart,” Bob says, twisting to hide the clench of his jaw from anybody watching, “you keep being so friendly, I'm not going to be able to stand up.”

“Could rub a little harder and get you standing up just fine,” Mack counters, and lays his palm flat over the chub Bob's got no chance at hiding. It's more attention than his dick's gotten in two weeks or more and it lights up nerves that don't give a shit whose hand it is like bonfire. His hips push into the firm curl of Mack's fingers on the same instinct that has his hand slapping to Mack's wrist. If he meant to yank it away or hold it steady doesn't seem half as important as the tiny groan Mack lets slip.

For show or not, Bob still ends up asking, “You like that?”

“Ain't a spare brew I got in my pocket.” Mack's grip shifts to shape Bob's dick through his jeans, denim pulled tight so that the scant bit of friction is almost as bad a tease as Mack's thumbnail was. The time it takes to finish what's left of Mack's beer isn't enough for him to figure either what Mack's next move is gonna be, or what his should.

“Hold that thought,” Mack says, giving a good squeeze before pulling his hand away entirely. He jostles Bob to the side, sliding him onto the chair he only got done hauling Bob out of ten minutes ago. “Can't have you drying out yet.”

Helpless isn't a thing Bob's used to being, but that's exactly what the smile he covers with his hand is. He leans on the table and rolls the empty bottle between his hands. Smitten newlywed is a role he's had a lot of practice with, but not for awhile, and definitely not like this. He's supposed to be watching for their target, not watching Mack weave smoothly through the crowd. It takes a firm shake of his head to get his eyes back to where they need to be.

“Trouble?”

To Bob’s left is a guy he recognizes from the hotel lobby. He's got bleach-blond hair, more metal in his face than Mack's got hidden in those too-tight jeans, and a voice far too soft for the acoustics in here. Leaning closer, Bob gestures at his ear and calls, “What?”

“Trouble,” says the guy, this time without the question mark. “I said, your man's all trouble.”

“Tell me about it.” Bob taps the ring on his finger twice. It's thicker and heavier than his own wedding band, and for awhile, that had been a help. Now it's a reminder that Mack's also those things, and it's been ages since either one caught his interest. Chewing on what, if anything, he's going to do about it mid-mission doesn't seem like the world's best timing. That isn't slowing Mack down any.

A tap to Bob's shoulder gets his gaze swinging left again, and then front and centre to where the guy's pointing at the dance floor. Picking out a friendly through a mass of pushing, shoving bodies and flashing lights comes easy to Bob these days. He spots Mack first, then Grey, and still it takes him seconds more than it should to put together what the hell they're doing out there.

“Told you,” says the guy, accepting a drink from his partner just returned from the bar.

“Jesus,” Bob says, leaning a little out of his chair as he squints at Grey's arms looped around Mack's neck, their bodies tucked so close together they're exchanging a heck of a lot more than intel. As Mack's hands slide down to cup Grey's ass, lift him higher on the thigh Mack's got shoved between his legs, Bob stands up.

“Good idea,” says the guy. He gives his partner an elbow and an eyebrow that somehow gets him clued in on the whole thing, if the partner's sudden loud laugh is anything to go by. “Better get out there before that little honey makes off with your honey.”

Kneeing a couple chairs aside, Bob mutters, “Can't leave him alone for a minute,” and shoulders out into the crowd. He's not exactly sure what his plan is until he's muscling up behind Mack and shoving an arm between them. With a fist clenched in Grey's shirt and Mack trapped firmly between them, Bob puts his mouth to Mack's ear and says, “You're making me look bad, dear.”

Mack laughs, head thrown back on Bob's shoulder and arm in the air as he grinds between them. Bob's gaze hooks on Charlie's for a split-second, long enough to register the amused challenge there. Everybody spent so much time cautioning Bob about what he was about to sign up for that nobody had time to warn him about this. From the outside in, it's all pranks, dares and bets, pull another one over on the newbie; from the inside out, it's how the team knits itself together. Unconventional is the name of the game.

Even with months of that under his belt, Bob's not at all prepared for Grey to grab onto his arm, use it for the leverage he needs to lift up and plant a big wet sloppy one right on Mack. Somehow he's slightly more prepared for the groan that vibrates through Mack's chest straight into his. As dark as the club is, Bob's more than close enough to catch the way Mack opens up for the push of Grey's tongue.

“Assholes, the both of you!” Bob shouts over the music, his chest filling with a giddy type of mania that he's not so far gone he can't enjoy for what it is. He hooks his fingers into Mack's belt and hauls him back onto the stiffy he abandoned to come out here, reminding him--

Reminding him about Bob doesn't know what. His face is still pressed close to Mack's and even over the noise of the club, he's sure he can hear the wet sound of Grey sucking on Mack's lip. That he's watching so closely he could be imagining it knocks him off-rhythm. They both notice, but Mack's the one taking hold of Bob's hip to guide him back into it. It's slower than the beat of the song, more deliberate. When Mack's head tips onto his shoulder again, face turned close, all Bob can do is wonder if Grey's going to watch.

“Not here,” Mack says, the words formed more on his lips than given voice. It isn't until he adds, “Take you back to my place,” that Bob connects it to the mission.

“Too crowded anyway,” Bob calls back, loud enough for Grey to catch. The wink Grey tosses him in return could mean anything. His shirt, still clenched tight in Bob's fist, gets tugged free as Mack turns, lines up with Bob from chest to hip. The target's confirmed at the other hotel; the mission belongs to Hector and Grey. They're done here. But, as if it's his call to make, Mack's looking to him.

And Mack's hard. Not a little stiff. Hard. 

Arm hooked around Mack's waist, Bob turns them toward the exit. There's a cabstand out front, and this early, a long line of cars. Bob opens the back door of the nearest one and climbs in, digging out his wallet. Mack's already tossed a few bills into the slot before his ass hits the seat, leaving Bob clutching uselessly at his cash, momentum lost. Mack tells the driver to head up the beach.

After the racket inside the club, the cab should be a relief. It's as dark as that table in the corner, though. Just as close with Mack's thigh pressed to his, Mack's arm along the back of the seat, Mack's gaze on him, heavy.

The cabbie's watching in the rearview. If he's hoping for a show or dreading one, Bob can't tell. They might not be running point on this mission but their covers need to stay solid to the close. A voice inside Bob's head tells him he should've done it on the dance floor. Should've pushed the way Mack's been pushing him all night. Might be Bob's been wasting his night expecting the team to pop out of the woodwork, yell _gotcha!_ and have a good laugh at his expense. Could be this is how it goes, more unwritten rules secreted away in Jonas's pocket like those diamonds, and Mack's the only one waiting.

Bob rubs a hand over his mouth as the cab pulls into the hotel drive. He's a few steps behind Mack all the way through the lobby to the elevator bank. They ride in silence this time; Bob's got no more jokes left in him. There's a whole cacophony of voices in his head, and he's not sure he likes which one's loudest. A man can't live two lives, and yet he does. All of them do, every damn day. If he's looking for an excuse, he's not going to find it there. He's got a wife and he's got kids and he's got permission to give his team anything it needs.

The elevator chimes. Mack's in the lead again, halfway down the hall to their room before the doors have slid shut. Mack’s moving casually, holding open the door to the room until Bob catches up, crossing the space to the bed in half a dozen easy steps. He strips off his shirt and loosens the laces to his boots, and somehow still seems to be waiting for Bob to green light.

“On the bed,” Bob says, thrown off again at the rough grate to his voice. He throws his wallet onto the dresser--habit; he never remembers it's in his jeans and wastes ten minutes in the morning trying to find it--and clears his throat. Words stay stuck in it as Mack unbuckles his belt, pushes his jeans down and off as easy as if they were bunking down for the night. The buckle clinks as he tosses them aside and stands naked and still mostly hard at the foot of the bed.

“Babe,” crackles and catches in Bob's throat--habit again, foreign and familiar all at once--and Mack's mouth curves. He stretches out on the bed on his belly without bothering to tug the covers down. His legs are the same shameless sprawl they were earlier, but this time his cock is caught against the bedspread, pushed down and back against the soft crush of his balls. The freckles scattered over his arms and his back reach all the way to his ass.

Pillow folded under his head, half of that smile left lingering around his lips, Mack asks, “Gonna finally show me what you did to earn that yachtride home?”

A laugh burbles through the pressure in Bob's chest. He hasn't even taken his shoes off yet. “I punched out the other guy.”

Mack laughs, the loud, real one he lets loose with in the distillery. “Already got me laid out, newbie.”

Bob laughs again, softer, says, “Yeah,” with a shake of his head. That giddy mania's come rushing back, spurring him into pulling off his clothes, shoving them aside to let Mack look. Mack isn't shy about it, and if he's got qualms about the way a few tugs fills Bob’s cock out, gets it standing up straight, they don't show on his face.

“You know I'm not the one who,” Bob offers, and trails off with a vague gesture and a shrug. He steps closer to the bed because the distance feels strange, but the lack of it doesn't exactly help. “With the Brit.”

Mack cocks an eyebrow at him. “You think I've never taken it up the shitter?”

“And there goes the romance,” Bob says, rueful.

“You want some sweet talk, how 'bout you give me a reason?” Mack’s eyes are as full as amusement and challenge as Grey's had been, and dark like he's really asking for it. Hell, maybe Grey had been asking too, and all Bob had done was miss his chance.

“I don't think you know how to sweet talk a fella,” Bob says, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing a knee up. He sets his hand to the back of Mack's calf. Short, crisp hairs prickle at his palm as he strokes upward, the skin behind Mack's knee a brief spot of softness before he hits thigh. “Could be you already would've done it if you did.”

“Could be you haven't figured out yet how I do my asking,” Mack counters, but with a smile and a shift of his legs that invites Bob's touch higher. If Bob had given deep consideration to how to fuck one of his teammates, this wouldn't be how he'd see it going. Somewhere dark and dingy and cramped, pants yanked open just enough and rough hands grabbing at flesh. Not a bright, opulent room, thick carpet and plush bedclothes, not the slow lift of Mack's hips as Bob's fingers trace the crease of his ass and curl into the crack. His knuckles press against soft, dry heat and he breathes a low curse.

“There's where you gotta romance me,” Mack says, with another slow, dirty shift of his hips. “Grease up and show me what you got.”

“Jesus.” Bob’s eyes close briefly before he scoots forward to search through the nightstand. There's more than just lube and rubbers in there, all wrapped up in sterile, one-use packaging. He throws a couple random toys on the bed since he owes Mack more than one for this. All he gets is Mack tapping a finger against a vibrating cockring and a lazy grin that takes on a sly slant when Bob's fingers are slick and pressed between the cheeks of his ass again.

“Atta boy,” Mack says, his spine curving as he goes up on his elbows. Anal's not something Bob's used to, outside the few times Kim's been tipsy and adventurous enough to let him go wandering when he's gone down on her. Even then, it's been his tongue, just pressure from the tips of his fingers, not a firm, deliberate push against muscle that's slow to ease. He lets up a bit, goes to his knees for better leverage and braces a hand on Mack's hip. Mack's rumbling groan as much as clutching heat cuts his breath short as his fingers sink deep.

“Now,” says Mack, climbing lazily to his knees, “if I were gonna waste my time with pretty words, I'd tell you how good it feels, couple of thick fingers in me like that. But I've a mind to getting your dick there sooner than later, sweetheart, so you spread those fingers wide, get me good and loose so you can fuck it in me.”

“Well,” Bob says, pausing to scrape his lip with his teeth, “that's not bad. Good effort.”

Mack twists to shoot him one of those crooked grins. “Y'think so?”

Bob gives an easy shrug and a smile, playing it like he can't taste his pulse in the back of his throat. With Mack watching, he edges closer, pressing his cock to Mack's flank as he draws his fingers back, pushes deep again. A few more times like that, and by the seventh time his knuckles are curled tight to Mack's skin, he's learned the trick to turning Mack's mouth slack. He leaves his fingers where they are, stroking the tips against flesh as warm and tender as any he's touched, and deals with the condom one-handed. He flicks the wrapper onto the bed in front of Mack, earning himself another one of those raised brows and a drawled, “That it?”

Bob nods. “That's it.” Gloved, slicked, and ready, he settles between Mack's spread legs, hand on Mack's hip to keep him steady as he lines up. “Thought I'd do you the favour of opening you up the rest of the way on that cock you're so hot for.”

“Aren't you the gentleman,” says Mack, half of it lost on a breath as Bob angles his hips, sinks in. The pressure around his cockhead cuts his own breath to ribbons, his fingers clawing into Mack's flesh as he shifts again, keeps going firm and steady until he's as deep as he's going to get. He can't stop the slow grind of his hips, spurred on by the tight clutch of Mack's body as much as the way Mack's held so still for it, head bowed, back stretched long and lean and muscles cast in sharp relief. 

Mack makes a short noise as Bob goes still, tries to keep his head. The urge to just rut and come doesn’t fade so much as it becomes slightly more bearable, and that’s when he bends low, hands stroking up Mack's sides to anchor at his waist. “I got the feeling you wanna hear me say I'm gonna fuck you now.”

“Might as well.” The words are easy but Mack's breaths aren't, shallow and tight with anticipation. “Got this fancy big bed to put to use.”

“Yeah.” Bob straightens up and draws back slowly, savouring the pull. The push is just as good, long and sweet like he's never going to bottom out until he does, and still he’s left wanting more. “Somehow, I don't think it's the bed you want put to use here.”

Whatever Mack's got to say to that gets lost in a sharp grunt. A few short, hard thrusts drive more noises out of him. It doesn't even sound like he's trying to hold them back so Bob takes tight hold of his hips near the crease of his legs and hauls him back into it, forces more and more out of him until Bob's the one lost in the raw grate of Mack's voice. There's a quiet warning inside his head for him to slow down, be careful of his own strength, but that's habit, too--Mack's not leaning away but straining closer, fists knotted in the bedspread for leverage to slam his own body back.

“That escalated fast,” Bob gasps out, and takes Mack's shuddery laugh as more than agreement. He slows it down anyway, giving Mack a chance to regain his balance before they both end up face-first into the headboard. He's bent over Mack again, reasoning that they've gotten past the point where the urge to mouth at Mack's shoulder could be considered over the line, when the telephone on the nightstand rings, shrill and sudden.

“Nobody I know.” Mack rocks forward on his knees so Bob's tongue drags against skin the same as his cock does. He pauses to wipe his mouth on his arm and goes again, fucking himself slowly. Bob rests his forehead on Mack's shoulder and rides it out until need starts clawing at his insides. By then, the phone's quit ringing and all that's left is the rasp of Mack's breath as Bob takes over. He manages to keep it steady if not slow for a few minutes more, and this time coming out of Mack are grunted half-words, about as much meaning in them as the grunts themselves but more than enough for Bob to get the gist. They’re all orders Bob's more than happy to follow.

Until the phone rings again. Mack grates a curse, reaching for it and snapping his arm back as he gets shoved onto his chest. “Fuck,” Bob says, “fuck, fuck, I'll get it,” because it could be mission-related. Whatever it is, it better be worth letting his dick slide out of Mack to grab up the phone. “Go.”

“Ah, yes. Apologies, sir,” says a flustered voice. Bob's eyes go wide. He drops down onto Mack, tucking his head close to Mack's so they can both hear. “We are very, ah, pleased that you are enjoying your stay with us, as well as the provided amenities. But we would like, that is, we are required to request--”

“You gonna say it or you want me to?” says Mack, exactly like they're still in the middle of it.

“That's okay,” Bob says quickly, twisting the phone away from Mack. Keeping the grin plastered across his face out of his voice is too much to ask. “We understand. Thank you for your discretion.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” says the concierge. “Thank you very much, have a... a pleasant evening.”

Biting his lip, Bob drops the receiver back on the cradle. He leans over Mack, running his fingertips along the edge of the headboard, then along the wall behind it. No nicks, no dents, nothing. He gives an experimental thrust, cock caught against Mack's ass, and watches the headboard stand fast. “You'd think a five-star place could afford some decent soundproofing.”

“Didn't even think we got noisy,” Mack says. “Figured that was the warm-up.”

“That so,” Bob says, and slips his hand between them. Mack's so slick and open he takes a couple fingers like they're nothing. Even wet from a couple of her own orgasms and his too, Kim’s never gone so loose. “Feels a little more than warm to me.”

Mack twists to look over his shoulder. “That you saying you plan on fuckin' me raw tonight?”

Lust knots up Bob’s insides. He pulls his fingers free and leans close enough to taste the brews they'd shared on Mack's breath. “Roll over and find out.”

Mack shifts to slot their mouths together but holds off before their lips touch. He stays there like that, not a kiss but sparking in Bob's gut like it is. “Yessir,” he says, and drops, letting his legs sprawl wide.

Bob hooks a hand beneath one knee, watches first his cock and then Mack's face. There's a twinge like it should be awkward--Bob's seen Mack bloodied and bruised and almost broken, but he's never seen Mack vulnerable, and that's the look in Mack's eyes when Bob bottoms out. Completely naked and open in his wanting. Faced with a look like that, there's not much Bob can do except kiss him.

It's nothing like Grey's showy kiss, and not much like the kisses that greet him when he comes home, either. It's deep and rough without the relief. There's a desperation to it that says this time they got off easy but next time might not be so lucky, and that's exactly what they've got to relish about it. Not like coming home, but the trust that they’re gonna make it there. 

“Didn't peg you for the tender type,” Bob murmurs, Mack's scruff rough against his cheek.

“Tender's what I'm aiming for.”

Bob says, “Glad to oblige,” with all the Southern charm he can muster. Then he puts all his energy to fucking Mack, breaking words down to groans and groans down to nothing but the hiss of breath and half-formed noises that don't make it past the clutch of Mack's chest. He's going to have a few aches of his own come morning, thighs protesting and shoulders burning from holding Mack's knees splayed wide and nearly to his ears. But Mack's hard as a rock caught between them, cock riding the mess of sweat and slick, and he’s wound tight like it won't be long. Almost too long for Bob to handle but he takes it out on Mack's body, digs bruises into flesh with teeth and fingers both. Mack's voice cracks raw when he shouts and Bob's laughing as he goes too, laughing to fucking kill himself at the complaints the concierge is going to get now.

He's not at all mindful of his weight as he drops onto Mack, sucking down air and snorting another laugh or two between breaths. “Fuckin' loud,” he says, and lays a smacking kiss to Mack's chest because it's in him to do it. Mack gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder, acknowledgment, thanks, and fuck off all in one. It sets Bob off again, great big bellows that set Mack off into wheezy guffaws that only make Bob laugh harder and his guts hurt worse. He manages to fumble the condom off somewhere in the middle of losing their minds and rolls onto his side, his head pillowed on the careless arm Mack's flung out and their legs tangled and sticky.

“Too bad you already put this ring on my finger,” he says, slapping a hand to Mack's chest, “'cause I think after that, I'd ask you to marry me.”

“Y'know,” Mack says, and slowly scratches at his chin, “now that I’m thinking about it... seems that's what they all say.”

Already near the cusp of sleep, Bob mutters, “I just bet they do.”

*

The cheery knock of a bellhop wakes Bob the following morning. He rolls over with a groan, waking further when he finds the warm empty space beside him. He's bunked down so often with his teammates it's not unusual, and neither is it unusual to open his eyes and find one of them in the middle of hauling on a pair of wrinkled night-before shorts.

He'd really like to claim being greeted by, “Morning, kitten,” _is_ unusual, but he's just not that lucky.


End file.
